


Lifelines

by spots_of_violet



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Beginnings of a relationship, Hamilton will always look a bit like Lin in my mind, Hurt/Comfort, Love the Musical though, M/M, Real Life Events, Real Life Lams deserves more Love, Without Rapping because I'm pretty sure they didn't do that back then
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:48:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23524090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spots_of_violet/pseuds/spots_of_violet
Summary: Every friendship has its starting point. In the case of Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens, that starting point is a punch in the face in the aftermath of their first shared battle.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Comments: 15
Kudos: 82





	Lifelines

Brandywine, September 1777

\----

There are these walks that, though objectively not far, feel like they take longer than your whole life up to that point. The way back to your home after getting dead drunk at a stranger's place. Going to tell the man who has hosted you as a guest for a year that unfortunate circumstances will inevitably change your relationship to that of father- and son-in-law. 

Coming home from battle.

Tonight's march back to camp is one of those walks during which you only manage to put one foot in front of the other because you know each step will bring you closer to home; that it is a mathematical certainty that you will get there if you only can force yourself to take enough of them. And so you keep walking, like a plowhorse in its yoke, one foot in front of the other foot, losing all sense of distance covered, just begging that you will arrive at some point. 

The forest is dark around him and muddy under his feet. Water seeps into his boots on every step, adding to the lingering wetness of sweat on his skin that has had no chance to dry before nightfall. The moon being the only source of light, he can only make out the men walking directly in front and next to him, but the noise breaking through the darkness from every direction - the clinking of metal, the moans of pain - bear witness to how many more must be there, moving in the same direction. A large mass in which every man walks alone.

Not even 24 hours ago, a young man that has been him but isn't anymore has sat on a pallet by candlelight with a glass of cheap whiskey in his hand, feverishly giddy before battle.

"You never forget the first time, that's how they say", Lafayette has said in his stuttered English that he insists on practicing even in their company. "N'est ce-pas, Monsieur Hamilton?"

"They are right, whoever they are", Hamilton has answered after a moment of silence and lifted his cup. "Raise a glass to freedom."

It feels like years ago. 

We held them off, Laurens thinks, biting into the thought to keep himself upright. This army will live to see another day. 

When he sets foot back into camp, noises and movement collapse over him. Everywhere he looks, he sees men rapidly moving in the red shades of campfires, hears them shouting at each other through the process of tearing down tents, collecting supplies and throwing them onto carts, all of it accompanied by the neighing of horses made skittish by the frenzy of activity around them. He sees men crouching on the ground next to injured comrades, mumbling comforting words while giving first assisstance.

Before today, the sounds of an army camp have felt like backround noise - easily ignorable for the most part, sometimes even exciting. Now, the multitude of sounds and voices seem to layer over each other instead of blending, building to the point of cacophony. He stands on the battlefield again, a cannonball deafening him, and for a moment, his nerves feel awfully close to snapping. He fights to keep himself under control, because god knows how embarrassing it would be to sink to the ground and cover your ears where everyone can see you. 

When the new arrivals draw attention, they are greeted by the cheers of other soldiers and a couple of them come running to embrace friends on their safe return or lend an arm to those in need of assistance. A vaguely familiar-looking man with major's stripes approaches Laurens and addresses him by his name, but everything he says sounds muffled, like his words have to travel through cotton to reach his ears. When the man doesn't receive an answer, he extends a hand towards Laurens's shoulder, offering his help, but the moment the man's fingers touch his arm, an intense aversion against physical contact rushes through Laurens and his body jerks back without his own doing. 

"I'm not wounded", he manages to explain through gritted teeth when the major gives him a concerned look. "Help somebody else."

As he passes the first tents, trying to remember where his own is situated, he draws some attention from the people he passes. He knows only too well why they are looking at him like they do and hopes that the expression on his face will be enough to keep anyone else from approaching him. He doesn't want to talk, isn't if sure he could at this moment - all he wants is to get to his tent and out of his clothes. One foot in front of the other, come on, you can do this. 

A bloodcurdling sound to his left causes his body to jerk around out of pure instinct. He sees a horse lying on its side on the ground a few feet away from him, twisting his neck in pain from a gunshot wound in his croup, legs kicking faintly in a desperate effort to ease his suffering.

Its neighing sounds eerily similar to human screams. 

He isn't sure how he makes it back to his tent. This is not a figure of speech; from the moment he looks at the wounded horse to the moment he opens the flap of his tent, the time is simply missing.

The second the flap closes behind him, his hands fly up to his cravat, ripping at it so violently that it comes undone through sheer force. He throws it to the ground without the intention of ever picking it up again and then proceeds by taking off his uniform coat and boots with frantic movements. That task has barely been finished when another wave of shouts and noise rolls through the tent, tearing at his nerves. Laurens lowers his head and closes his eyes in a desperate attempt to drown out all the noise. A moment is all he needs, he tells himself, just one moment of silence that will allow him to refocus.

It's such a futile effort.

When he opens his eyes again, his vision flickers. A strange heaviness takes hold of his body, pulling him down onto his pallet, where he comes to sit, motionless and tired. The sheet feels strange under his fingers, as if he has never put his hand on it before, never thought about how linen feels when touched properly. He looks to the side to examine it, detachedly curious, and a feeling of disconnection starts spreading from his fingers all the way through his body. 

In the end, the only thing that rises above the numbness is the voice of his father in his mind. 

I think you vainglorious, Jack, and impulsive like a child, and these are no traits that will last you through a war.

God, has he been right?

Darkness and silence give him no answer.

He doesn't know how long he has been sitting there when suddenly the tent flap gets violently thrown to the side and a man paces inside like a whirlwind, not looking left or right when approaching the table with rapid steps. There's a short rustle, then flintstone clicks against steel and a shower of sparks ignites the tinderbox on the table.

Laurens knows that it is Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton who has disturbed his solitude even before the man has transferred the fire from box to candle and the dim light can curl around his frame. There's something about the quick, efficient movements of his tentmate that betrays him even as a shadow. Hamilton always walks like he is late to at least three meetings - which, for all Laurens knows about the man's workload, might be close to the truth.

He watches in silence while Hamilton leans forward and starts quickly ordering the papers on their writing table, the candlelight throwing shades of red into his hair on every movement. The tent is dark, of course, but deep immersion into the task at hand is the only possible explanation that a long-time soldier like Alexander Hamilton does not register the presence of the other man in such vicinity until a full minute has passed. It takes a shift to the side of the table to grab his letterbox for him to suddenly pause in his motions and, only a moment later, jerk around in an almost comical manner. When his eyes find Laurens sitting on their pallet, it takes a moment of recognition, but then, his facial expression quickly changes from alert to mild annoyance. 

"Goddamnit, don't scare me like that!" he chides and turns back to the table to resume collecting the papers on it. "Why are you sitting here in the dark?" he asks without turning around again, clearly intending reproach. 

Laurens wishes he knew. But he doesn't, and his throat constricts as he tries to put this into words. 

Upon not receiving an immediate answer, Hamilton turns around to look at him questioningly.

"Laurens, is everything alright?" he says, the annoyance on his face starting to give way to concern.

It might not be meant as a rhetorical question, but it feels like one. Laurens is self-aware enough to know that something must be wrong. It's completely unlike him to sit motionlessly while all hell has broken loose around him - or at least, it has been until today. For the first time in his life, he feels utterly indifferent to his surroundings and this should frighten him much more than it does right now. 

He knows that Hamilton thinks the same; he can see it in his eyes and his furrowed brows. But Laurens feels utterly unable to voice what is going through his mind: it's too much and too little at the same time. He truly likes the young man with the expressive face and the lively eyes he shares his room and pallet with, but still, their relationship is too new to do any heavy lifting. They might have worked next to each other, drunk together and even occasionally touched on their personal history, but a few nights at the campfire don't make friends. He doesn't know Alexander Hamilton - not really; the man is barely around in their room and not half as capable as he thinks in hiding the sharp edges lurking under his sociable surface, at least not for anyone but Lafayette. 

At this thought, dread suddenly curls down Laurens's spine. From one moment to the other, the picture he has pushed out of his mind stands in front of his eyes so clearly that the smells and sounds of the battlefield accompany it: a young man being carried away by two soldiers, splotches of blood covering his white dress shirt. A face screwed up in pain.

How could he have forgotten?

"Lafayette?" he says and considering the panic that suddenly freezes him from the inside, it's puzzling to him why his voice sounds so disaffected when saying the name. "I saw them carrying him away, is he..."

"The doctor assured us he would recover", Hamilton cuts him off, trying to sound reassuring, but despite his effort, tension is bleeding from his voice. "He only took a bullet to the leg."

"Thank God", is the only thing Laurens manages to say. 

"He sounded twice as alive as you do at the moment, if I am honest", Alexander responds in a cautious tone and turns around again to grab something from the table.

The room brightens as a second candle is lit on the first one, and before Laurens can utter a warning, Hamilton steps close with it in hand.

As soon as the light falls on him, his friends face pales. 

Laurens knows how he looks and even if he didn't, the glances of the officers he has passed would have told him. His coat and shirt are so drenched in blood that he will not even bother to give them to his servant to clean. Worse is the feel though, the way the blood has soaked through the fabric of his shirt and glued it to his skin like liquid sugar. His whole body feels soiled.

A loud, ungodly curse escapes Hamilton's lips and he barely bothers with placing the candle safely before crouching down and slipping an arm under his shoulder. 

"Fuck, why are you not at the medical tent?" he says frantically and pushes upward. "I'll bring you, just -" 

"It's not mine", Laurens cuts him off. This time the lethargic inflection of his voice truly disquiets him. He can see his words hanging in the air after he has spoken them; they look unfamiliar, as if there's no way he himself has been their source. 

Hamilton halts in his motion, but his face doesn't look any less worried.

"Are you sure?" he says, his voice full of doubt and pulls his arm out from under his shoulder, only to crouch down in front him, place his palms on both sides of his face and look into his eyes intently, obviously searching for signs of blurriness. "You might not have noticed, often -"

The moment Hamilton's hands touch his cheeks, Laurens feels anger welling up inside of him.

"I am not an idiot, I checked" he snaps and Hamilton immediately withdraws his hands. Laurens stares at the traces of red on his palms and, following his eyes, Hamilton looks down and notices them as well.

"There's blood in your hair," he says, still sounding shaken. "Let me take a look at your head just to be sure."

"It's not mine", Laurens repeats when Hamilton reaches out again and promptly leans away from the unwanted touch. "It was an arterial spray."

Two hands firmly clench into his shoulders in response and force him to hold still.

"Don't move", Hamilton says sharply. "That's an order, Major."

He sits motionless, boiling in resentment, while the young officer crouching in front of him checks his scalp and torso for injury with quick, efficient movements. The moment he is finished, Laurens can hear Hamilton breathe a sigh of relief.

"You're right, it's not your blood", he admits hesitantly. 

"I told you. It's from a redcoat."

"More like ten", Hamilton remarks and the hint of a smile appears on his face. "From the looks of it, you could pass as a redcoat yourself."

He rises back to his feet and administers a pat to Laurens's shoulder.

"Let's get you into a new shirt and pack up."

Hamilton steps back to the table to resume collecting the papers and stuffing them into his letterbox, but stops after a few motions, obviously irritated at not being able to sense motion behind him. He throws another glance towards the bed. 

"Laurens, get going. We only have the night, there's no time to waste." 

Yes, that is what Alexander Hamilton would say, Laurens thinks. No matter how shortly one knows this man, this one thing is impossible to miss: He refuses to stand still, in body as much as in mind, and expects the same from everyone around him. It's inspiring on good days, irritating on bad ones - and utterly overburdening at this moment. 

"I can't."

It's the only thing he is able to respond, and the utter truth at that. Ever since Laurens has sat down on his pallet he has continually thought how it would be better for him to get to his feet, get to work, do something that will force his mind out of the dark place it has settled into. But no matter how often he has commanded his body to move, tried to connect his mind to his limbs, he has been grasping into empty space. At this point, it feels quite unbelievable that this construct of flesh and bone has ever been part of him. 

"Not that I'm not sympathetic to your moment of introspection, Laurens", Alexander comments breezily, grabbing his traveling bag and throwing it on Lafayette's pallet. "But we have to move three thousand troops till morning, lest we stay in immediate range of the British, so you will simply have to."

He stuffs the letterbox into the bag and follows it up with two shirts, before stopping again to look at Laurens. It's at this exact moment that something changes in Hamilton's face, as if he has only now begun to understand that the situation might be more severe than he has thought.

"You're allowed to be pensive after battle, believe me", he says after a few moments of silence, cautiously searching for the right tone. "Especially after your first. But really, we have to get going."

It is evident how much effort it takes for him to stay this calm, and Laurens detachedly admires the fact that he manages it at all. He has seen Hamilton give another soldier a serious dressing down for simply taking an hour's rest when delivering a letter from Philadelphia - a clear indication of what he must think about a fellow officer not performing his duty during a retreat. The irony - Laurens had absolutely agreed with him at that time. Ever since he has arrived at the camp, he has counted himself among those who belong there without a doubt - those able to ask more of themselves than they should rightfully be capable of. He has taken so much pride in finally discarding what had been left of the undecided, studious boy he has once been, to build himself anew, as a man in his own right, among his comrades. 

What a mistake this pride has been.

Hamilton keeps looking at him with furrowed brows for a few more moments. Then he drags a hand over his face, steps close and leans forward. 

"Can you lift your arms?" he asks, his voice strangely neutral. "Come on, try."

It is not the first time Laurens can sense the palpable strength of Alexander Hamiltons will and words cannot express how thankful he is for it right now. The shame of being seen in this state should kill him, but instead, he only feels relief in getting clear instructions on what to do.

This close he can see what has escaped his attention until now: the sweat on Hamilton's forehead, his disheveled hair, and the exhaustion lining his face. It is strangely comforting to see proof that even this young man, despite the impression he gives from afar, is not superhuman in his strength. Their eyes meet, and there is no reprimand in Hamilton's gaze, just tiredness and honest concern as he takes the hem of his dress shirt in hand and pulls it carefully upwards. As expected, it sticks to his body, but instead of simply ripping them apart, Hamilton separates skin and fabric with much more care for both than Laurens himself could have ever mustered. Absurdly enough, he suddenly feels the urge to smile: Hamilton is so freaking skittish about clothes. It borders on laughable to take that much care with a garment he will have to discard anyway. 

The mixture of amusement and odd affection that accompanies this thought finally sends a semblance of feeling back into his body.

He sluggishly raises his arms, only for Hamilton to carefully pull the bloody fabric over his head and throw it to the side. His eyes scurry Laurens's chest and the traces of blood on it before he rises again and goes to fetch their washbasin.

"Wash up if you can", he says, putting the basin down in front of him. "I'll pack in the meantime." 

It takes Hamilton not longer than a couple of minutes to cram all of their belongings as well as Lafayette's into their bags - safe for their clothes, they have not brought much to the tent to begin with. He works in concentrated silence, but Laurens sees his eyes flickering towards the pallet ever so often. 

He follows Hamilton's suggestion and cleans his chest and arms of blood and sweat. His hands still don't feel entirely his own and when he's done he can't help but sit down again and stare into the basin on his lap, water mixed with blood, a strange light red color. He can't take his eyes off it for what feels like eternities. 

Then, Hamilton's voice forces itself into his thoughts, demanding attention where he has none to give. 

"Would you like to share?"

Laurens looks up. Hamilton stands in front of him, watching him with that unreadable expression of his that Laurens, quite honestly, hates. Somewhere along his way, Hamilton has acquired the ability to change his facial expression from deepest emotion to an absolute lack of it at a moment's notice, shutting every door to his mind for the outside world. The contrast never fails to disturb Laurens. 

"Share what?" he asks, trying to reign in his irritation. 

Hamilton rolls his eyes, implying the stupidity of that question, and a flicker of anger lights up in Laurens. 

"Your source for shame, of course."

"I don't believe my conduct in battle gave me any", he says, and tries to hold on to the flicker - at least it's something to feel - but he simply can't. What claim could he have to bravery at the same time his body is denying to obey his commands?

"So I hear", Hamilton responds. "But no-one gets out of their first battle without shame that he's not quite the person he fancied himself to be. Or did you think soldiers drink after a fight to celebrate?"

He sounds as if he intentionally wants to make him feel stupid, remind him that despite their closeness in age, he is the one who has already proven himself as a soldier and who hasn't failed at it as Laurens has. Worse, he probably has a right to it. He has heard stories of Hamilton's bravery, of valor and a cool head in battle, and considering that they have earned him a place on Washington's staff, he has no reason to doubt them.

Laurens closes his eyes. God, how much he wants to be alone. 

A sharp sound directly in front of his face causes his eyes to fly open again and for him stare into Hamilton's face, now way too close to his, with bewildered disbelief. Has that man actually had the audacity to click his fingers in front of his face, demanding his attention as if he was some kind of trained dog? 

"So, is it cowardice?" Hamilton says, sounding sickeningly smug. "That's what people are usually most ashamed of."

Laurens looks at Hamilton at a complete loss for words. Barely concealed through the means of a question, this man has just called him a coward - as if that was not the deepest insult a soldier can give another. For a moment, he earnestly considers that his hearing might be impaired.

"What?"

Sharp blue eyes look back at him unflinchingly.

"You heard me."

There is a moment of silence in which Laurens feels a mixture of rising anger and irritation. This just doesn't make any kind of sense. Yes, he has seen hints of a well-concealed temper in Hamilton during the last weeks, but it is exactly that - well-concealed. As Washington's right hand, Hamilton has all the skills of a capable diplomat. He knows much better than to be this brazen.

And still, this is happening. This man is blatantly, obviously provoking him and his thinking pulls into knots of anger in response. 

"It's not only that, right?" Hamilton doubles down, sounding as if he's positively relishing this exercise in humiliation. "I see - You were keen on dying, weren't you?"

He clicks his tongue. 

"That's why you came here, right? You were too much of a coward to do it yourself, so you expected someone to do it for you."

The words hit Laurens in the gut like a fistpunch. 

The next thing he knows, he's standing, the water from the basin that has sat in his lap drenching his pants and pain exploding in his knuckles as he sees Alexander flying backward. For a split second, he wonders what has happened, but then Alexander hits the ground, the back of his head connecting with the table behind him in a bone-chilling crack.

For a moment, he just lies there, but before Laurens has any time to react, Alexander's eyes fly open again, wide with shock and pain.

"Shit...", he wheezes, rolling to his side and pulling his limbs to his core in an instinctive effort to manage the pain, drawing air into his lungs in what sounds like an excruciating effort to breathe. "Shit, that hurts!"

Standing up, Alexander Hamilton can give the impression of being as tall as anyone he's talking to. Cringing on the ground, his body unable to follow his commands, there's nothing left of that. He looks exactly like what he is: someone slight enough to take actual, real damage from a hit such as this.

Laurens instinctively takes a step towards him, but Hamilton aggressively waves his hand to indicate not to touch him and rolls to his back, closing his eyes. His lips are crimson with blood, but thankfully and miraculously, no facial bone seems to be broken.

"Can I -"

"Shut up", Hamilton cuts him off sharply, keeping his lids pressed shut. "Shut up, or I swear I'm going to shoot you."

Laurens watches in silence while Hamilton exhales and inhales, his face white as chalk except for the line of blood trickling down his chin from a cut in his lower lip. He doesn't know what to feel. On the one hand, there's justification: to accuse a fellow soldier of cowardice is a grave insult in itself, and any officer should know better than to do it. And this other thing...

It's a complete mystery to him how Hamilton could have expected to insinuate something like that and not get punched for it. 

But what he sees intercuts every feeling of satisfaction. He has inflicted so much pain today - what is the victory in adding to it still, and to a man who fights for the same side as him? And then there's the fact that, no matter how inappropriate his behavior, Hamilton is still his superior officer. If he decided to press the matter Laurens could face all kinds of consequences - he could be demoted, stripped of his place on Washington's staff, even let go from the army entirely. 

So, when Hamilton opens his eyes again, he is enormously relieved to not see any signs of blurriness in them. Strangely enough, after fighting down the first wave of pain Hamilton looks almost composed as he shakily pushes his body up into a squat and experimentally traces a palm over his cheek, before dragging his hand through his hair as if to put it back in order.

"You throw a punch as if you've spent your whole life in bar fights, you know that?", he then breaks the silence, his voice again tantalizingly neutral. "Would you like a pillow to beat into instead? It would hurt my face considerably less." 

Laurens watches incredulously as Hamilton rises to his feet, only slightly swaying on them for a moment before he gets his body back under control. He doesn't know what he has expected as a reaction, but it's safe to say that it has not been such a matter-of-factly demeanor. Considering what has just happened, it rubs him in all the wrong ways. Does this man truly set out to be as irritating as possible?

"I apologize", Laurens says in a chilly voice that will not fool either of them about the perfunctoriness of this phrase.

"Don't be too sorry" Hamilton retorts with deep sarcasm before spitting red on the ground. "It's not as if I haven't been punched in the face before."

"I can't imagine why", Laurens cannot help but retort. "Have you ever thought about being less insufferable?"

"I'll think long and hard about it when my head stops spinning", Hamilton responds dryly, though still not exhibiting any signs of righteous anger. He lifts his hand to trace its fingers over his cheek again, not wincing even though he doubtlessly wants to. He has such a delicate face, so clear-cut and pretty that it's almost unmanly, and the bruise that is quickly forming low on his cheek looks utterly out of place on it. 

"You're awfully lucky you missed my jaw", he comments. "Broken bones would have been hard to explain." 

Laurens doesn't bother to answer. He's done with it all, from this aggravating man to the constriction of their tent. He needs to leave, should have left hours ago, go where he is needed and where this obnoxious man isn't present to taunt him. 

"Do you feel better?" Hamilton's voice breaks into his thought yet again. He has turned to the mirror, dragging his hands through his hair while looking into it. 

And something in Hamilton's tone gives it away, doubtlessly because that is exactly what he intends. In an instance, Laurens understands what has happened over the last minutes. Disbelief floods him and replaces any nagging feeling of anger. 

"Please tell me that you did not intend this", he says, dumbfounded. "I could have broken your jaw." 

"Yeah, hot thanks for missing", Hamilton responds, turning his head and bestowing Laurens with a lopsided smile that betrays a healthy amount of gallows humor. "To be honest, I only wanted to anger you. I didn't expect you to be quite so quick to throw a punch. You didn't seem the type - well, all the way until you did."

He looks back into the mirror and screws up his face in dissatisfaction. 

"This one's on me, but just to be clear, if you ever hit me in the face again you're doing kitchen duty until the war is over."

Laurens furrows his brows when he realizes that something feels unfamiliar about Hamilton's manner of speech since he has risen to his feet again. He tries to pinpoint what exactly it is while he watches Hamilton putting his hair and uniform coat back in order and needs a while before he finds the answer: It's the accent. From the way Hamilton's inflection changes under stress, Laurens has always had the hunch that he suppresses one - but he has never been quite sure until now, when he hears it bleeding clearly into his voice. 

"Where are you from?" he asks curiously after Hamilton has turned around again. "I've never heard that accent before."

Hamilton blinks in surprise, and there's no telling if this is because of the sudden change of subject or because he has been unaware that he even possesses something as profane as an accent. To be honest, Laurens prefers the latter. It's a comforting thought that even a man blessed with such intelligence might not be able to control everything about himself. 

"It's Caribbean. I've been born in the West Indies", Hamilton answers after a moment, shifting his feet in unease. 

An uncomfortable silence falls and the longer it lingers, the more Laurens feels the embarassment of having revealed too much about himself in too short a span of time. It's as if his mundane question has suddenly made both of them aware of how they still are strangers much more than they are acquaintances, and as usual, the aftertaste of oversharing like two drunkards on their first nightly outing is a healthy dose of awkwardness on both sides. Hamilton clears his throat and smiles in an obvious effort to ease the tension. 

"The drop is always worst after the first battle", he says categorically, making it very apparent that he is keen on putting an end to this conversation. "It'll get easier."

Turning around, he grabs their half-emptied bottle of whiskey - a gift from Lafayette from the night before - from the table behind him, only to hold it out for Laurens to take. 

"In the meantime, do what all of us do. Drink, and forget."

There's really nothing to do for Laurens than to take the bottle, raise it to his lips and throws his head back. The liquor burns sharply in his throat, a beautiful and invigorating kind of pain.

"I ask your forgiveness for neglecting my duty, Colonel", he says, swallowing down a cough as he hands the bottle back. "And I thank you for reminding me of it."

Hamilton takes a swig of his own and puts the bottle back on the table, wiping his mouth with the other hand. If the whiskey burns in his split lip, he doesn't show it. 

"I count on you to return the favor."

With that, they should go back to packing up their stuff. They really should - they have wasted so much time already while they are needed outside. By now, everyone on Washington's staff is probably already cursing them for their absence. 

But instead of moving, they stand in silence. Laurens listens to the noises outside the tent, the neighing and shouting, and they remind him of what he has come here to escape. Or to seek? He isn't sure about a lot of things anymore, not after today. 

"Don't", Hamilton interrupts his train of thought. 

It takes Laurens some effort to redirect his attention. 

"What?"

"I see you want to crawl back into yourself, beat up on yourself for being better at survival than others have been. It's honorable to commiserate the fallen, but don't turn it into a weapon against yourself."

He cannot help to wonder what history has shaped the man in front of him, what unusual string of occurences has made him become what he is. Hamilton is neither tall nor strongly built; he has a girlishly pretty face and is barely 23 years old, but everything about him at this moment radiates steel. There's no way to overlook how much he's used to command authority - not because anyone has given him power, but because he knows that people will follow natural born leaders, and he is one of those. 

How do you manage it, Laurens wonders. To be so hardened - so perfect for war. 

This man would have never needed the favor he has generously given tonight. From one moment to the other, Laurens despises himself. 

It must be evident on his face because Hamilton's expression changes. Slightly but unmistakably, a hint of compassion creeps into his features, and it feels wrong and strange to Laurens, because softness should have no place in Hamilton's face.

"John" Hamilton then simply says, and it feels like a careful, hesitant touch. 

Laurens realizes that it is the first time any of them has addressed the other by their Christian name tonight. It feels rather ridiculous, considering.

Hamilton sighs. 

"I know you feel ashamed, but there's no need to. What has happened to you - I've seen it happening to others, and not just once. Many of them have been brave men."

How much he hates, hates when people try to placate him - especially Hamilton, who consistently manages to hit too close to home tonight. 

"Well, I didn't see you here sitting on the pallet in my stead", Laurens says sharply. 

Hamilton snorts deprecatively in response and lets himself sink onto the pallet demonstratively. 

"You sure you didn't miss your calling as a catholic priest with that talent for self-flagellation?" he says his voice suddenly noticeably laden with anger. "May I remind you that you've spent the day fighting for your life and killing what, 10 men, in close combat? All I did was heeding Washington's command that I resort to transporting messages. I didn't come closer to any redcoat than two hundred feet."

He stills, looks at him and Laurens wonders how he could have missed it - that in truth, Hamilton is not half as calm and collected as he pretends to be. He should have felt that something had to be boiling behind the blank expression, because there always is when a surface is too smooth. He only has been too preoccupied with his own thoughts to notice. 

"You wouldn't have failed."

He regrets these words in an instant when he looks into Hamilton's furious face.

"You think so, yes?" his comrade snaps. "Then would it help you for me to I admit I've once had such shaky hands that I couldn't have held a pen if my life depended on it? Or that I've felt guilty - so, so guilty - about surviving where others died? Does it soothe you to hear that I've contemplated joining them because of it? I managed to get it out of my system before the war, so I suppose I was lucky, wouldn't you agree?"

He snorts and raises an eyebrow as if to dare him, even though Laurens has no idea about what. He's to busy being overwhelmed by Hamilton's furious admission, firstly because he has no idea what has prompted it and secondly because the Alexander Hamilton he has come to know just isn't like this. The man he has gotten to know boasts and crows; he puts his intelligence on the table like a rich man would a bag of coins, lest anyone might not notice it. Most importantly, he doesn't tolerate weakness, not in himself and not in others.

It's amazing how much affection an admission of weakness can trigger when it comes from someone who usually is content with paying the price for showing off. There might be voyeuristic pleasure in watching ostentatious superiority, but it rarely inspires fondness in others. Unlike this. 

Laurens opens his mouth to say something, to express his gratitude in one way or another, but Hamilton is not finished. 

"Tell my brother that I'm proud to have shared the battlefield with Achilles", he recites in french, his pronunciation of the language flawless and elegant as always. "That's what Lafayette said about you when I went to see him. Doesn't sound to me like he's talking about a coward. So in the name of god, stop beating yourself up because in your mind shaking hands after battle constitute failure."

Laurens wishes he could explain, but the words for it have evaded him all night. If he was Alexander, maybe it would be different; maybe then, he could explain in carefully worded sentences that while this might be about shame, it has never been about shaking hands.

His hands have not shaken once today - not until this moment, when he wants to explain what has happened to him on the battlefield.

He sits down on the pallet next to Hamilton. 

"I actually wanted to become a priest once", he says, and feels Hamilton smile faintly in return. Still not able to feel the fabric of the blanket under his fingers, an intense longing to connect with something surges through Laurens and in an impulsive decision, he covers Alexander's hand with his own, intertwining their fingers. He can feel Alexander's surprise at such an intense display of emotion, the clear impulse to withdraw his hand and it confirms what he has already suspected: That the man next to him prefers to not be too close to others. 

And still - Hamilton doesn't withdraw his hand. He ignores the first instinctive flinch, actually makes a very noticeable effort to do so, and allows the touch to linger. And for the first time since they have met, he also refrains from breaking the tension with sharp words, just looks at him and makes space for silence. 

And then, it just breaks out of him. He begins talking, slow at first, then faster and faster, his mind overcome with the irrational fear that the words will again elude him if he doesn't string them together fast enough. He tells it all and omits nothing, stumbling over the sentences, rambling like a low-bred idiot, like a drunken tavern girl lacking any sense of propriety.

How he has not been afraid today, not once. How his hands have calmly buried his sword into that first redcoat's throat, the first kill of his life. How the arterial spray has covered his uniform and face and turned the world red. The feeling of glorious purpose upon being covered in enemy's blood - heady, intoxicating, besotting. A sense of belonging eradicating doubt and humanity, eradicating everything but a craving to drown in the darkness he has discovered inside of himself. The rush of excitement, the thirst for more death. 

How he had loved this day more than any other in his life. 

How he was not supposed to. 

Alexander listens to him quietly the whole time, his head lowered and his hair obscuring his face. Even when Laurens has finished, he doesn't look up. 

"War and the human soul have always made for a curious combination", he says after a long silence, his tone of voice completely changed. "We go into it expecting to feel like heroes, and instead cut our feet bloody stumbling over pieces of ourselves we didn't even know existed."

A hard streak has appeared around his mouth when he finally looks up.

"Achilles enjoyed the fight, you know? He knew it was his nature and he did not think of blaming himself for it. Neither did the other greeks. You brought hot blood and calm hands to the battlefield as a soldier ought to, nothing more. You are not alone. There are many who find thrill in killing."

"That's no excuse" Laurens responds, amazed that Alexander thinks he will content himself with this. "They shouldn't. I shouldn't."

In response to his words, Alexander does something that truly startles him: For the first time tonight, he evades his eyes and looks away. 

And for one precious moment, the line between them blurs, and Laurens can grasp the essence of the man sitting next to him. A deep inner life full of contradictions and conflicting emotions; sharp edges surrounding abyss. The compulsion to move to not have to look into it for too long. 

The knowledge of what it means to feel inadequate. 

Laurens might not be what he wants the world to see when looking at him, but then, neither is Alexander Hamilton. 

"It's all just pretense, isn't it?" he says, giving in to the instinct to slash through the opening like he has done on the battlefield. "This gets to you as well."

"Of course it gets to me", Hamilton responds with a hint of his previous anger. "The savagery of it, the waste, seeing our men fall in hundreds because of faulty intelligence? If it didn't, I'd be dead."

He raises his head and looks at Laurens, and the moment they lock eyes, something flickers between them. Curious to examine further, Laurens tries to hold on to it, but Hamilton breaks the connection as unexpectedly as it has appeared. He rises from the bed, so abruptly that it reads more like an instinctive reaction than a conscious decision, like withdrawing your hand when touching something hot. Laurens watches in silence as Alexander tries to wipe his face off emotion like he has done so expertly before tonight and feels oddly touched when he fails miserably.

Tell me what you need, he wants to say. Let me return the favor. 

But he doesn't say it, only listens when Alexander speaks again, sounding exhausted and angry at the same time.

"Forget about all this, John. Do it quickly. If you let these thoughts into your head- if you let them dwell..." he closes his eyes and drags a hand over his face in frustration. "One day you will stand on a battlefield, see another man run at you and think "What right do I have to kill him?". And it will not take long, but longer than you can afford."

As if to seal some kind of agreement, Alexander extends a hand and waits until Laurens takes it. But instead of letting go after a moment, Alexander continues to press Laurens's hand tightly, pulling him up from the pallet so they are once again face to face. 

"This war... This war is an opportunity", he declares sharply. "The opportunity most men don't get in their lifetime. It's too precious too waste, do you understand that?"

It's the most desperate attempt to justify wrong, and goddamnit how much Laurens understands it - the feeling to suffer from two opposing ideals ruling your life, the need to convince yourself that they could someday, somehow coexist peacefully. 

"You're preaching to the converted", he responds. "Why did you think I crossed an ocean to come here?" 

"Then you also know that blood will be the price of our freedom", Alexander says. "This liberty lies on corpses. It's the truth and we have to face it."

It sounds like the undeniable truth, but still, for the first time today, Laurens holds Alexanders appraising gaze without any desire to evade it. 

"I have to believe that liberty requires a better bedding than just that", he says passionately. "Men are not savages when their circumstances don't force them to be. If you gave them a system to nurture their better instincts, they would rise above their baser instincts. Since we claim to fight for such a world, we would be well advised to not discard our better selves because the circumstances seem to call for it. Once thrown away, certain things are irretrievable. This war must be a beginning, not the end."

"You know what such fever dreams of a better kind of humanity usually lead to?" Alexander responds with subtle poison in his voice. "A steady supply of deaths for the history books to embroider as glorious. If that is what you're after, by all means, go ahead. The beautiful die young, they say, and you might make an even more attractive corpse than Chatterton." 

It's impossible to miss the slight upward quirk that creeps onto Alexander's lips during the last sentence. The words might be taunting, but this minuscule smile makes them feel less like the challenge to fight than an invitation to dance.

Laurens has always loved dancing. 

"You are the only man in the world indifferent to glory, then?" he asks. A shot in the dark, admittedly, but an educated one. "And aren't you too young to be this cynical?"

This earns him the indignant raising of an eyebrow, which tells him that he has drawn blood. 

"Aren't you too old to be this idealistic?" Alexander retorts. "Believing that human nature is incapable of fundamental change doesn't make me a cynic, it makes me a realist. Just because you check people for weapons at the entrance of a house doesn't mean their nature will suddenly change once when they step inside."

"To try is a reason to die for."

In response to this Alexander falls silent, but the expression on his face is so telling that Laurens doesn't know whether to laugh or to sigh. 

"You think I am an idiot, don't you?"

"A bit", Alexander answers. "I mean, look at you, waxing poetically about humanity's glorious future with blood still on your face."

I am not the only one, Laurens thinks. Throughout their conversation, Alexander has repeatedly raised his hand to wipe away the blood still trickling out of the cut in his lip. Traces of it are spread all over his cheek by now, and they remind Laurens how hard it is to truly get a good look at yourself when you are confined to your own perspective. 

"What do you want then, Alexander?" he asks impulsively. "What do you want out of this war?"

For a moment, Laurens isn't sure if Alexander will answer, not with the way he looks to the side with a stern expression and tight lips. 

But then, Alexander turns his head back towards him in a decided movement, and when they lock eyes, the intensity on Alexander's face takes his breath away. 

"I want a system that will last forever", he says. "Not because of beliefs or ideals, but because it works in humanity's collective interest. A system that gives chances to anyone worthy of them, that is ruled by wise men instead of kings, that does away with the inevitable stupidity and fickleness of the individual."

He draws a deep breath. 

"And my fingerprints on it."

These words are thrown at Laurens's feet like a challenge - like Alexander is daring him to talk back, to make fun of or deride his ambition. And Laurens inadvertently has to smile, not because this is funny or comical, but because he feels relieved. His whole life he has searched for someone he doesn't have to lie to. Someone who gets it, gets it, gets how the need for validation and legacy can rule your life, even though you wish you could be pure and selfless and virtuous. Someone who will not only nod his head in understanding, but truly know what it feels like to burn with the desire to leave your marks on history. 

"I understand", he says. "As long as you see to it that there's space for my fingerprints as well." 

"There will be", Alexander responds with disarming honesty. "If you manage to survive this war, that is." 

They look at each other, and he knows that they both can feel a spark between them in this moment - fleeting and easy to quench at this point. But every spark brings with it an alluring promise of future flames. 

"As I said", Laurens says. "There are more important things than to survive." 

"I would prefer you did, though."

He blinks in complete surprise at these words and the heartfelt voice they are spoken in. As Alexander continues talking, he only grows more bewildered.

"The moment you stepped into headquarters I thought I knew everything about you. The kind of man you are, your motives", Alexander says and the hint of embarrassment in his voice is slight but unmistakable. "I've gravely misjudged you, and I can only ask your forgiveness for that."

There they are, the cracks in the shell that he thought Alexander doesn't possess. He really should have known better. What has brought them about, Laurens does not know, and to be honest, doesn't care all that much anyway. The promise of recognition, of being seen and treasured for what you truly are is too exhilarating to think about such negligibilities. He's gone through so every possible emotion today, but if it ends on this one, it might have all been worth it.

Her brother falls into friendship like other men fall into love, his sister, wise beyond her years, has once remarked. She's been right. No matter how often he's disappointed, how often someone fails to meet his expectations, he always burns to try again, to see if at some point, at some time, with someone, he can finally make the right decision. At some point in time he has found that he is too old to take pride in solitariness like he has as a child.

On this thought, he gives into the impulse, steps forward and embraces Alexander. His body stiffens slightly in Laurens's arms, the instinct to disentangle again palpably strong, but just when Laurens begins to wonder if he has made a mistake, Alexander finally gives in. His body relaxes and fills the blank space between them as if it has been made to do so.

"Would you mind", he calmly says into Laurens ear, "if I leaned on you?"

A smile later, Alexander lowers his head and as it comes to rest on his shoulder, the skin of his cheek feels strangely cool where it touches the bend of his neck.

Laurens doesn't underestimate the gift Alexander bestows him with for a single moment. But it is at this moment, in the privacy of their tent, with all hell broken loose outside, that he understands that he's not the only one in need of a lifeline.

Alexander Hamilton might need one just as much.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this - or merely have made it all to the end and are reading this ;) - I would appreciate you leaving me a comment about what you thought, may it be constructive criticism or praise. Since I have no native beta-reader at my disposal, any corrections in that area are especially welcome!


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